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GOT Chapter 73: From the Shadow Lands to Moat Cailin
🕑 Added 2025-08-14 23:01:16 +0000 UTCOnce Daenerys understood what they were doing, fear crept over her again. She quickly tore her gaze away from the coupling pair. But things
Once Daenerys understood what they were doing, fear crept over her again. She quickly tore her gaze away from the coupling pair.
But things did not happen as she expected—that earlier scene had been little more than a signal horn.
The first two were still at it on the ground when another warrior stepped forward, and then the next, until the dizzying spectacle became impossible to ignore.
As the numbers grew, the dancers were no longer enough to go around. Two men seized the same woman; a shout rang out.
Daenerys looked over instinctively just in time to see one shove the other aside.
In the blink of an eye, two arakhs were drawn. Without a word, the pair launched into a deadly dance of blades.
They circled, lunged, and struck at one another. The flash of steel spun between them, curses and cries ringing in the air.
The crowd watched without a single hand raised to intervene.
Death came suddenly, and ended just as swiftly.
The clash of arakhs was so fast Daenerys could not follow it. She saw only one man’s footing falter—his opponent’s blade sweeping in a wide arc.
The razor edge bit into the Dothraki’s waist, cleaving him from spine to belly.
A red flash burst forth, his entrails spilling into the dust.
While the vanquished writhed in his death throes, the victor had already seized the nearest woman and mounted her on the spot.
Daenerys noticed she was not even the one they had fought over.
Slaves came to drag the corpse away, and the dancing resumed.
Whether it was her imagination or not, the drums now seemed to beat with an even fiercer, more fevered rhythm.
She forced down the sour bile that rose in her throat, remembering Illyrio’s warning from before.
Any Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a failure.
If that was true, then surely her wedding would be especially blessed by the gods.
By the time the sun touched the horizon, Daenerys had counted twelve dead before her eyes.
They had died proudly and without a sound. The crimson blood that spilled from their wounds vanished into the trampled earth as quickly as it fell.
With each passing moment, her fear only grew, and all she could do was fight to keep from screaming.
'I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself again.'
At last, as the sun dipped toward the west, Khal Drogo clapped his hands.
In an instant, the drums, the shouts, and the riot of feasting fell silent.
Then Drogo rose, helping his bride to her feet.
The wedding had reached its final act—the gifting of the bride.
Yet as Drogo’s great hand reached toward her, Daenerys felt her fear grow.
She knew well that when the gifting was done and the sun had set, she would be truly wed.
Her legs weakened, her whole body drawn taut, trembling in spite of herself.
She tried to push the thought away, but it was useless.
Her brother Viserys had given her three handmaids.
Daenerys knew he had not spent a single copper; this must have been Illyrio’s coin, meant to lend him the appearance of generosity—just like the jeweled sword at his hip.
“Sweet sister, these are no ordinary slaves,” Viserys said, presenting them.
Irri and Jhiqui were Dothraki, with almond-shaped eyes, black hair, and sun-browned skin. Doreah was a girl from Lys, fair-haired and blue-eyed.
“They were all chosen with care by Illyrio and me,” Viserys went on. “Irri will teach you to ride. Jhiqui will teach you the Dothraki tongue. And Doreah—”
“She will teach you the arts of the bed.”
Viserys’s mouth curved in a small smile.
“She is an expert in that field. Illyrio and I can both vouch for it.”
Daenerys nodded, her expression blank, accepting the gifts her brother had so thoughtfully prepared.
Ser Jorah Mormont came forward next, his gift a small stack of worn books—histories and songs of the Seven Kingdoms, written in the common tongue.
Daenerys thanked him with genuine gratitude.
Illyrio’s gift was carried by four burly slaves: a cedarwood chest banded with bronze.
When it was opened, she saw it packed with the finest velvets and silks from the Free Cities.
But these were not the true gift.
Resting atop them were three large eggs.
At the sight of them, Daenerys’s heart gave a sudden, sharp jolt, and for an instant she could scarcely draw breath.
They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Each egg was different, its patterns and colors so rich they seemed to be crusted with jewels.
She needed both hands just to hold one of them.
“What are these?” Daenerys asked softly, her voice filled with wonder.
“These are dragon eggs from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai,” Magister Illyrio said, his tone carrying a strange inflection. “Though they have turned to stone over the ages, they remain as beautiful as ever, do they not?”
Daenerys had heard many tales of dragon eggs, but never had she seen one with her own eyes—let alone imagined she would have the chance.
It was a gift worth more than gold.
“I will treasure them always.”
She knew Illyrio could afford such extravagance. Selling her to Khal Drogo had already brought him a wealth of fine horses and slaves.
By tradition, the Khal’s bloodriders presented her next with three splendid weapons:
A silver-handled whip, a grand gilt arakh, and a double-curved bow of dragonbone taller than she was.
But as Illyrio and Ser Jorah Mormont had instructed her beforehand, she followed the custom and declined the offerings.
“My blood,” she said as the ritual demanded, “these are the arms of great warriors, yet I am but a woman. Let my husband bear them for me.”
And so Khal Drogo claimed her bride gifts.
After that, other Dothraki came forward to present more.
The pile of treasures beside her grew higher and higher, beyond anything she had imagined—and far beyond anything she truly needed.
Among the many precious offerings was even a sleeping robe sewn from a thousand mice skins.
“Khaleesi, this is a fine gift!” Illyrio explained when she stared wide-eyed. “It is most auspicious!”
At last, Drogo brought forth his own gift for his bride.
He moved through the crowd, leading a horse.
It was a young mare, spirited and radiant, with a presence that took Daenerys’s breath away—its coat the grey of a winter sea, its mane like silver smoke.
...
The King and the Hand had quarreled over the matter of the kingdom’s heir, parting on a sour note.
But such a small dispute was hardly enough to derail the approaching march to war—much less shake the friendship they had shared since boyhood.
Their estrangement lasted only until evening.
At his lady’s urging, Lord Stark entered the King’s chambers with a bottle of wine in hand, and before long, those standing guard outside heard the deep, booming sound of laughter from within.
The next day, the host for the southern campaign set out without trouble.
Yet this was not the first army to head south.
Even earlier, Lord Stark had ordered a force of nearly one thousand men to march for the Neck.
This was a company made up chiefly of six to seven hundred archers. As soon as Eddard Stark learned of the Lannisters’ first move, he dispatched them straight to Moat Cailin in the Neck.
Moat Cailin, with its causeway that allowed an army to cross the Neck in safety, had been a strategic stronghold for thousands of years—guarding the North against invasion from the South.
For the North, it was a natural choke point, one that had for millennia shielded them from southern incursions.
For an invader, gaining the alliance of House Reed was virtually the only way to pass Moat Cailin without bloodshed.
Only the crannogmen knew the unmarked trails, the narrow paths through the bogs, and the water routes hidden among the reeds.
But given the ancient bonds between the Reeds and the Starks, such a thing was all but impossible.
So, with the first stirrings of war, the Starks had sent their men to hold this ground at once.
After all, with the Lannisters making the opening move, both King Robert and Eddard Stark had to show their own response.
Now, a week into the march, the great host—having quickened its pace—continued down the Kingsroad.
They had crossed the Trident and entered the lands of the First Men.
Yet before dawn this morning, King Robert himself came to Eddard’s tent and ordered his men to wake him.
Eddard Stark blinked groggily awake. The past month’s work had left him weary, and he could not help but feel the truth of the years pressing on him; his body no longer held the boundless vigor of his youth.
The world was still dark, silent, and shrouded in a dim grey light.
Shaken from sleep, Ned stepped into the cold quiet of the morning before sunrise.
Compared to Winterfell, the air was already far warmer here. He drew in a deep breath, the chill filling his lungs and clearing the last fog of sleep from his mind.
He rubbed at his eyes—and instead of the patchy snow and hints of green that would be visible even before dawn, he found himself facing a saddled mount.
The King himself was already astride it.
Robert wore thick brown gloves against the morning chill, reins in hand.
A heavy fur cloak with a hood draped over his shoulders, making him look for all the world like a great bear on horseback.
